Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  My dear Mr Rawlings, Your Servant, Sir.

  Allow me to draw to your attention, Sir, the fact that the other Members of Winchelsea’s Polite Society to whom I have Spoke can, for Reasons that will soon be Obvious, be excluded from Suspicion of causing the Death of the Scarecrow. Two were Abroad at the Time, the Others too Infirm for Reasons of Health or, in one Case, Fatness, to be Suspected. I pray you, Sir, in the other Regard, to cast your Eye upon the Statements of the Tiremans in Particular.

  I remain, Sir, your most Humble and Obedient Servant,

  J. Jago

  John read all the statements, noticing the differing way in which people told their tale. Whereas Mrs Finch positively gloated over the fact that the Frenchman had asked her for directions, her daughter lied most blatantly about her liaison with the man, claiming that she had hardly been aware of him. In contrast, the Marquis of Rye’s statement was curt to the point of rudeness, as was Sir Ambrose’s, who ranted on about ‘damned foreigners’ and very little else. The two Girondes’ account was a falsehood from start to finish, Lady Ffloote’s declaration was conspicuous by its absence, and Dr Hayman’s story of events was vague to the edge of evasiveness. Captain Pegram, on the other hand, admitted quite freely that the Frenchman had called on him and repeated their conversation almost word for word. But it was most certainly the Tiremans’ statements that stood out, having such an air of negativity about them that John instantly became suspicious. According to the Rector and his family they had seen nothing, met nobody, and appeared to be unable to understand why they were being questioned at all. Which, as John knew, was at odds with Rosalind’s admission of having noticed the Frenchman because of his beautiful clothes. Henrietta’s description of incidents appeared to have been dictated by an empty-headed flap with a pea where her brain should have been. In fact it was all too guileless to be real.

  Sighing heavily, the Apothecary put the papers down, wishing that he had parted with the elder Miss Tireman on better terms, that the days when he had not seen her had not weighed so heavily on him, that she had replied to the letter he had written before he left for London. Giving in to a severe bout of depression, the Apothecary picked at his breakfast, for once leaving most of it, then went quietly out of the house without waking Elizabeth Rose.

  It was still early and there were few people about. Determined to try and retrieve something from the wreckage of the previous night’s fiasco, John beat a determined path to the campanile and went inside, hoping that Captain Pegram’s unseen companion might have left some clue to her identity. But there was nothing to be seen. The flagstone floor was bare of everything but bird droppings. Scowling, the Apothecary set out to retrace the route that the scurrying footsteps had taken.

  If his hearing had been correct, the woman had run up the path that came out close to Paradise House. Moving swiftly, John started to walk the same way, and it was then that he saw it, lying on the ground like a dead bird. Stooping, the Apothecary picked the object up, then his heart sank as he recognised it. With its bobbing feathers and sweet little furbelows, it was the hat that Henrietta Tireman had worn on the day that he first met her.

  ‘Oh no!’ John groaned aloud.

  But wish to deny it as he might, it was quite clear from its general state of dampness that the hat had been lying on the path all night. Thrusting it into his pocket, the Apothecary turned his steps back towards Petronilla’s Platt, more to give himself somewhere to sit and think quietly for a while than for any real need to return.

  Yet it was as well that he did go back, for as he came through the door Elizabeth called out, ‘John, is that you?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘A letter has arrived. It is on the dining room table.’

  ‘Thank you. The post boy’s very early today.’

  ‘It was delivered by a rough looking individual driving a cart.’ One of Dick’s henchmen, thought John, and broke the seal with interest.

  The writing was clear and neat for the bastard son of a notorious smuggler, and John was seized by the idea that the rascally Kit Jarvis had seen to it that his progeny had been given a good education. In fact the more he thought about it the more likely it seemed, particularly in view of Dick’s ability to pass himself off as a curate when he so desired.

  My Friend

  I have found a Spyglass near Fairfield Church with a French Maker’s Name on It. I believe It to be the Property of the Scarecrow. If you want to take Possession of It meet me at St Augustine’s, Brookland, this Day at Two O’Clock.

  Signed by a Patriot, R. Jarvis, who has the Honour to remain

  Your Loyal Servant

  Glad to have something to do other than ask perpetual questions, John was just heading out of the front door for Truncheons livery stable, when the post boy arrived at a fast trot and thrust more correspondence into his hand. Seeing yet another letter for him, the Apothecary opened it where he stood and realised with a great rush of pleasure that it was from Henrietta.

  Dear Mr Rawlings,

  I received your Recent Communication and have Consequently decided to accept Your Apology. There is Much that I would Say to You. Please meet Me in the Cherry Orchard after Dinner at Five O’Clock.

  John was filled with an enormous sense of joy, then he remembered the bedraggled hat in his pocket and his spirits slumped again. Further, there was the delicate matter of timing his appointments. To get from Dick to Henrietta in two hours flat was not going to be easy. Putting Elizabeth’s letters on the table, the Apothecary called out that he was off and hurried to the stables to hire the fast dark horse with the untrustworthy eye.

  One breathless hour later, John Rawlings arrived in Brookland, feeling in need of rest and refreshment. His evil mount had, once again, thundered to a halt on the very banks of the river, threatening to tip his rider into the water, had fidgeted throughout the ferry ride, then had gone off like a tempest and had only been persuaded to stop by the sight of a horse trough, where it had put its head down so low to drink that it was all John could do not to slither the length of its equine neck. Fearing the worst, the Apothecary had dismounted at this stage and led the creature the rest of the way to The Woolpack.

  It wasn’t only John’s own thirst that had dictated this stop at a hostelry instead of going straight to Brookland Church, rather it was the notion that he might find Dick there ahead of him. For if he were to be back with Henrietta by five, an assignation he did not wish to miss for a variety of reasons, he must be early for everything else. However, The Woolpack was empty, and the Apothecary, having downed a draught of ale, was just about to take his leave when a familiar voice boomed from the doorway.

  ‘Great God in the noontide,’ said Lucius Delahunty, ‘if it isn’t yourself.’ And in came the Irishman, a bag containing pots and brushes on one shoulder, his easel on the other.

  ‘Lucius!’ John exclaimed. ‘I didn’t realise you travelled so far afield when you go painting.’

  ‘Oh, I go everywhere and anywhere there might be some custom. How now, landlord.’

  ‘Yes?’ grunted the surly individual who had helped hold John prisoner.

  ‘What would you say to a new inn sign in return for a guinea or two and some sustenance?’

  ‘I’d say be off, you Irish tinker.’

  ‘How very unchristian of you, Will,’ remarked a reproving voice, and Dick, in his guise as the Reverend Tompkins, bobbed his way into the inn, all black hat and clerical clothing. Seeing John ahead of him, he gave a grin and a jerky bow.

  ‘Mr Rawlings! This is indeed a surprise.’ The unruly blue eyes flicked over Lucius, then looked straight at the Apothecary and in their depths asked a question. John gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  Dick smiled at the newcomer. ‘Allow me to introduce myself Sir. The Reverend Tompkins, curate of this and other parishes. I travel around, you know.’

  ‘Lucius Delahunty’ said the Irishman, bowing deep, his long black hair falling forward over his cheekbones as he did so.
‘I’m a bit of a traveller m’self. Come to this part of the world to do a spot of painting and see something of the countryside.’

  ‘Actually,’ added John, with a wink, ‘he’s here in search of a young woman by the name of Molly Malone. The man’s an incurable romantic at heart.’

  ‘Splendid,’ answered Dick. ‘May I buy you something to drink, Sir?’

  ‘I never say no to an offer like that, Reverend.’

  ‘Two jugs of ale and a simple sherry for myself, Will,’ Dick ordered, every inch the kindly young curate. ‘And if I were you I would seriously consider the offer of a new inn sign. The one you have now is barely discernible.’

  ‘If you say so, Your Reverence,’ growled the landlord, glaring at Lucius.

  ‘Oh, I do indeed.’

  They took their drinks to a long wooden table, big enough to seat a dozen. In his mind’s eye John imagined the smugglers sitting round it, discussing their latest run and laying plans for the next, the air thick with pipe smoke and the smell of sweat and sea.

  ‘I’ve a mind to go and paint the church of St Thomas à Becket at a place called Fairfield,’ Lucius announced. ‘I’ve been told it’s very old and picturesque and is surrounded by floods from winter to spring. I thought I might use what imagination the Lord gave me and show the place rising out of the waters like an arm bearing Excalibur.’

  ‘How poetic,’ said Dick enthusiastically. ‘I think you should, Sir. Why, I might even buy a painting like that myself.’

  ‘Would you now, Reverend?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Then consider it done.’ Lucius finished his ale. ‘I’ll be on my way directly.’ He paused as if remembering something, then said ‘I heard the strangest rumour in an alehouse in Winchelsea and I just wondered if there might be any truth in it.’

  ‘What was it?’ asked Dick, looking benign yet at the same time suddenly cautious.

  ‘That a skeleton was found near St Thomas’s dressed up as a scarecrow. But that now it’s vanished, though nobody seems to know where.’

  The smuggler paused, clearly unsure how to respond. ‘Er …’ he began.

  John chimed in, ‘It’s true enough. A man did die nearby, possibly trapped by the floods.’

  ‘Who was he, do you know?’

  ‘A stranger to these parts, apparently. nobody could identify him.’

  ‘But what was he doing rigged up like a bird scarer?’

  ‘That part of the story is probably fiction. I never saw anything and I am in and out of St Thomas’s Church quite regularly,’ Dick said with the sort of air that suggested words spoken by the clergy are beyond question.

  ‘It never ceases to amaze me how gossip spreads,’ Lucius answered as he hoisted his bag and easel on to his shoulders.

  ‘Alas, it is the way of this sinful world,’ Dick replied mournfully. ‘And where may I find you, my son, to collect my painting?’

  ‘I’m staying at The Salutation in Winchelsea, Reverend. But I’ll write to you care of St Augustine’s when it’s ready.’

  ‘No,’ said Dick hastily. ‘I roam about too much for that. Better to send a letter here to The Woolpack. The landlord will always keep it for me if I am on a parochial visit.’ He smiled engagingly.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you,’ said Lucius, bowing somewhat awkwardly, weighed down as he was with his painting gear.

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ called John. ‘I’ll see you later this evening perhaps.’

  ‘Sure and I’ll be sending a search party if you don’t come.’

  ‘Farewell and God bless you,’ said Dick, but as soon as the Irishman was out of the door the smuggler turned to John hastily. ‘Is the fellow all that he says he is?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Why shouldn’t he be?’

  ‘It’s just that I wondered what he was doing at Brookland.’

  ‘Painting, as you saw for yourself.’

  ‘Yes, but why here?’

  ‘Because the countryside is beautiful, in its own harsh way.’

  ‘And how would he know that?’

  John grew impatient. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Dick, stop being so suspicious. First me and now Lucius. We’re not all of us revenue men in disguise. Let the poor chap paint in peace.’ He pointedly changed the subject. ‘Now show me the telescope.’

  Dick fished in the pocket of his cassock and produced a small folding spyglass which he elongated and put to his eye.

  ‘A very fine model. Where did you find it?’

  ‘Hidden in the grass, near where the Scarecrow had been placed. See, the maker’s name.’ Dick pointed. ‘Henri Varonne, Rue St Louis, Ile de la Cité, Paris.’

  ‘And it doesn’t belong to any of your fraternity?’

  ‘They’ve all got their greedy eyes on it, but the answer is no. There’s something else too, John.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘There are initials engraved just here.’ He pointed again. ‘Can you see them?’

  The Apothecary nodded. ‘G.D.L.T. The Scarecrow’s?’

  The smuggler smiled. ‘More than likely in my opinion, unless the Frenchie stole the spyglass, that is.’

  ‘Remember he was elegantly dressed and could afford to buy perfume for a lady. I should imagine he had money enough and would have considered robbery beneath him.’

  ‘You’re probably right. I’ll mention the initials to the French free-traders, see if anybody recognises them.’

  ‘Dick,’ asked John, ‘you say you are a patriot yet you continue to smuggle in French goods despite the fact that we are at war with France.’

  ‘That,’ answered the smuggler grandly, ‘is business, which is a completely different matter.’

  The Apothecary shook his head. ‘There’s no logic in that.’

  ‘There is to me,’ said Dick Jarvis with such finality that John knew the subject was closed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The very sight of Henrietta, looking so pale and somehow so vulnerable, tore at John’s heart-strings. She stood beneath the dusky cherry trees, a forlorn figure, and yet again the Apothecary thought that had he been the Marquis of Rye nothing would have induced him to drop such an adorable creature in favour of her glittering sister.

  ‘I’m here,’ he called out quietly, not wanting to startle her.

  Henrietta turned and gave the Apothecary a smile that warmed his soul. In love with him she might well not be, but it was abundantly clear that she not only held John in the highest regard but was truly delighted to see him. Without saying a word, he opened his arms and had the pleasurable sensation of feeling her snuggle into them.

  ‘I’m sorry about leaving you as I did,’ she whispered.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said such a cruel thing about the Marquis. It’s only that I’m jealous of the man.’

  Henrietta laughed. ‘There’s no need to be. He marries my sister next month.’

  ‘But I have the strangest feeling that you still care for him.’

  ‘Well, put it out of your mind, John. What is done, is done.’

  The Apothecary held her at arm’s length and looked into her face. ‘It would be very easy to fall in love with you, you know.’

  ‘I could say the same.’

  ‘Shall we do it then, just to see what happens?’

  Henrietta gave a rather sad smile. ‘Perhaps just a little more caution might be in order.’

  ‘Why? I hate caution. To hell with it,’ answered John, and kissed her.

  And then all the old magic came back and they were safe in each other’s embrace, forgetting everything else while they experimented with the delights of lovemaking. Yet it was as he held her close to him, delighting in her nearness, that the Apothecary noticed that Henrietta was wearing a different perfume. And one sniff of it was enough to tell him that it was Evening in Araby, the scent which the Scarecrow had bought for a woman unknown. But John cast such suspicious thoughts from his mind as he and Henrietta mingled delightfully.
Yet afterwards, as they lay quietly in the darkening orchard, the Apothecary remembered the hat and knew that whatever the consequences he must ask Henrietta how it had come to be dropped on the path leading to Paradise House.

  It was as they were leaving the shelter of the trees, heading for Friars Walk and the homesteads of Winchelsea, that John finally produced the dishevelled piece of headgear from his pocket and handed it to the girl he was falling in love with.

  ‘Is this yours?’ he said, regretting the abruptness with which the words came out.

  Henrietta looked at him in surprise. ‘Yes. Where did you find it?’

  ‘On the path in the churchyard.’

  She stared at him in amazement. ‘Did you? I wonder how it got there.’

  ‘I thought you might be able to tell me.’

  Henrietta narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s just that I interrupted Captain Pegram in conversation with a woman in the campanile of St Thomas’s. I rather thought the hat belonged to her.’

  Miss Tireman drew away from him. ‘Oh, so that’s it! Now I’m meeting Nathaniel clandestinely. I see!’

  John stopped dead in his tracks, pulling Henrietta to a halt as well.

  ‘No, you don’t see. Not one tiny little bit. I care for you, you foolish girl. I’m not accusing you of a thing. All I want is for you to tell me how your hat came to be dropped in the churchyard and I will be satisfied.’

  Henrietta gave him a mercurial smile. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked the Apothecary, astonished.

  ‘Because I don’t know. You see that hat has been missing quite some while. I must have gone out in it, then left it somewhere. But though I made enquiries at all the places I usually visit, nobody had seen it. This is the first time I’ve set eyes on it for about a fortnight.’